And Your Lips, My Dear, Are Like Giblets
by Mercator
Summary: A romantic farce starring Ankh-Morpork's most efficient Palace clerk. **FINISHED!!!**
1. Rufus Drumknott, at your service

++++++++ Drumknott seemed so boring to me until I came up with this story. He's not just the Patrician's flunky anymore! ++++++++++

(Usual disclaimers: Characters and settings belong to Terry Pratchett).

Chapter 1: "Rufus Drumknott, at your service."

            Rufus Drumknott had nothing against naked women.

He really didn't. If a woman wanted to disrobe in front of him, the private secretary to the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, more power to her. It didn't faze him in the least. Except…

Except when said nakedness occurred in his office during working hours. This could cause problems, seeing as his office was in the Palace and the Palace was a hive of clerks, servants, diplomats, messengers, guards, guild leaders and lords who, when they couldn't find the Patrician, found Drumknott. 

Take Angela. She was a maid in the turnwise wing of the Palace. One moment she was asking for a day off to visit her sick grandmother; the next, her black and white dress was on the floor. This sort of thing happened to Drumknott all the time.

"Please get dressed, Angela," he said, sighing.

"Are you sure?" 

"Quite sure. We don't want you catching cold." He helped her straighten the ruffles and escorted her out of his office. When the door closed, he slumped into his chair. The world was so unjust. He'd spent the entire year cultivating a reputation for homosexuality but it still hadn't stopped the women. Always finding reasons to drop by. Always leaving little presents in his room or sweets in his office. Just last month he'd paid the stable boy to allow him to kiss him in view of the Palace's biggest gossip, Mrs. Fitch, the laundress. She didn't take the bait.

"A go-getting young man, if you know what I mean," she'd said to the maids. Wink, wink. 

It was quite frustrating. To his knowledge, Drumknott hadn't done anything to earn this reputation. He wasn't handsome. Everything about him was neutral; his hair could've been brown or blond, his eyes green or blue. He wasn't well built and didn't get enough sun. He dressed in brown frock coats and paid some attention to his hygiene and that, for whatever reason, seemed to be enough. 

He'd once asked the cook's assistant, while helping her tighten the laces of her corset, what it was about him that made women so…friendly.

"You've got a way about you," was all she would say. 

A way. Drumknott sighed again and sunk down deeper in his chair. He was nothing less than cursed. Any man would love to have women hide under his desk or ambush him in secluded hallways. He'd tried to love it; O gods, how he'd tried. But it had all seemed so dissatisfying. He'd wanted nothing better than to be left to his work, which he'd always performed with utter accuracy, efficiency and discretion.

Until _it_ happened.

It was an official visit. Drumknott trailed a few steps behind the Patrician Lord Vetinari – supreme ruler of the city -- as they passed through the double doors of Pseudopolis Yard. The headquarters of the City Watch wasn't expecting them. The watchman on the front desk had his feet up and was smoking a crushed cigarette, which at the sight of the Patrician he promptly swallowed.

"Welcome…(gag)…your Lordship," said Corporal Nobby Nobbs. "We wasn't tol' about—"

"Never mind," said the Patrician with a bland smile. "Could you kindly tell me which way is the commander's office?"

            "He's out, your Lordship."

            "Pity. I should like to see his office anyway."

            Nobby scrambled out of his chair. "I think he keeps it locked when he ain't there, sir."

            "How interesting. Drumknott, you may remain here. Corporal, please lead the way."

            Drumknott was normally a very patient man. Waiting was a snap. In the course of his work, he'd waited in some of Ankh-Morpork's least comfortable hallways, foyers, alleys and waiting rooms. Pseudopolis Yard had benches. This was luxury. 

            He sat and waited.

            The front door opened and several Watchmen strolled in. 

            "Nobby's off the job again," said Corporal Reg Shoe, zombie.

            "Dis is a nice day. Maybe he went for a stroll," said Sergeant Detritus, troll and advanced thinker.

            "Nah, bet he nipped off for a bit of shut eye," said Reg.

            The third watchman rummaged around on the desk. Drumknott had casually watched them all because there was nothing more interesting going on at the moment. But his breath suddenly caught in his throat. Something about the third watchman's hair…perhaps not silk, but…surely a well cared for wool? He increased the grip on his leather satchel and looked on as the third watchman stood on tiptoe and leaned over the desk, revealing the top edge of a pair of high heeled boots. The boots were spotless and tipped with metal. They reached to the knees and… 

The watchman found a small stack of papers.

            "So many new forms these days. I can barely keep up with them."

            That voice! Drumknott let the satchel slide out of his hand. The voice was like…rainbows. Chocolates. Hummingbirds. He wasn't exactly sure what hummingbirds sounded like, he was a city man after all, but they had to be as sweet as that voice. He stared at the pink lipstick on the watchman's lips, the cut of the skirt that appeared to be made of tiny linked pieces of metal, the gold studs that flashed in both ears. An angel. A Vision…

            "Excuse me, do you need something?"

            She speaks!

            Drumknott hastened to his feet and bowed. "Rufus Drumknott, at your service, miss."

            Something made Reg Shoe snicker.

            Drumknott addressed The Vision. "And you are…?"

            "Corporal Cheery Littlebottom." Cheery waited for Drumknott's face to flicker with amusement. It didn't. It was too busy being happily stunned.

            "A lovely name," he said. "Lovely." His voice trailed off. He knew he should say something else, anything to keep The Vision from going away. "I'm here with the Patrician," he said quickly. "I'm his secretary."

            All three watchmen straightened up then. "What's the Patrician doing here?" asked Reg.

            Drumknott didn't take his eyes off Cheery. "I'm not sure, actually," he said. He did know, but it was millennia ago when he'd been briefed, and what did these little things matter when _she_ was here…

            Cheery was a dwarf and she was female. The gender of dwarves was not usually obvious due to the dwarfish refusal to practice any kind of sexual socialization. Everyone wore beards, everyone carried axes, everyone was supposed to sing songs about gold. Romance in dwarfish was a tentative thing. Cheery, on the other hand, had been banned from several dwarf bars for openly wearing cosmetics and shortening her skirt to above the knee. 

She was accustomed to being stared at. Not only by dwarves but humans as well. Ankh-Morpork had the largest dwarf population outside of the home country of Uberwald, but there were still plenty of people who never came in daily contact with dwarves. When they did, they sometimes felt the need to stare. Especially at one wearing eye shadow. Cheery had been in the city long enough to find this irritating.

            "Why are you staring at me, Mr. Drumknott?"

            Drumknott seemed to shake himself. He sputtered a moment, trying to think of something to say. "I was…I just… I don't mean to be rude, but…"

            "It does seem rude." Cheery put her fists on her hips. Drumknott's knees turned to water. "Maybe you don't like my lipstick?"

            "No, I mean, yes…It's…perfect…"

            "Some dwarves don't like my boots," said Cheery. "The heels, I mean."

            "They're truly…marvelous, Miss Littlebottom."

            "Corporal." 

            "Pardon."

She looked up with suspicion at Drumknott. She had to look up at pretty much everyone because she was barely four feet tall. "Some people think it's strange that I braid ribbons into my beard," she said. Her eyes narrowed a bit. "Do you think that's strange?"

"Gods forbid! The ribbons show off your lipstick superbly. And…er…"  

Cheery looked over at Reg, who'd quietly laughed so hard that his arm had fallen off. Detritus stared as if the conversation was way over his seven-foot tall head. Which it was. Cheery sighed. 

"I have to get back to work."

"Of course, Corporal," said Drumknott. "But perhaps I could ask—"

"Ah, Drumknott, we're finished here." The Patrician descended the last two steps slowly, Nobby Nobbs close -- but not too close -- behind. Lord Vetinari had a stack of papers under his arm that he hadn't had when he went upstairs. "Good afternoon…" His gaze ran from zombie to troll to dwarf. "…men. Crime fighting going well today?"

"Yes, sah!" said Detritus, who saluted with a loud ching.

"Excellent. Carry on. Drumknott, you seem to have dropped your satchel."

Drumknott scrambled to pick it up. "Sorry, sir."

The Patrician nodded at the Watchmen and turned to go. Drumknott looked helplessly at Cheery, who frowned at him. He imagined his heart ripped beating from his chest and crushed under those high, steel-tipped heels. Head hanging, he followed the Patrician out.

That had been three unbearable weeks ago. 

Since then, the women in the Palace had acted like they could sense the change in Drumknott. It was uncanny. They flocked and fluttered and whispered and giggled behind their hands and lingered too long in his rooms. Angela was just the latest in a line of unwanted visits that ended with an embarrassing show of skin. They were just trying to cheer him up, they said.

His efforts to get Cheery to notice him were failures. Anonymous flowers. Chocolates. The choicest rats delivered on sticks tied with red ribbon… Whatever _it_ was he had that drove human women to disrobe in his presence didn't seem to work on dwarves. Every time he found an excuse to drop by Pseudopolis Yard, Cheery was either not there or insisted she had too much work to do to talk to him. She had her own room for performing experiments in the new field of forensic policing. Drumknott tried to learn about it, to Take an Interest, but the facts slid out of his mind like water. 

It began to affect his work. That morning, the Patrician had said to him, "I think, Drumknott, that we need to have a little talk. About 4 o'clock."

It was 3:57. 

            Drumknott slid out of his chair, took a notebook and pencil on the slim chance that the Patrician wanted to dictate a letter instead of fire him, and dragged his leaden legs into the hallway.


	2. I don't think she approves of me

++++++ Yes, Drumknott and Cheery, a match made in….the freakish corners of my mind. And now, enter the Patrician to stir the plot pot… Thanks for the reviews so far!++++++

Chapter 2: "I don't think she approves of me." 

            The Patrician set down his papers and folded his hands on the polished desk top. His face held a blankness that revealed nothing about his mood.

            "Now, Drumknott. I won't beat about the proverbial bush. I've noticed lately a distressing change in your attitude toward your work."

            Drumknott sat ramrod straight in his chair. He was staring at the carpeted floor.

            "I understand that even the best of us have our bad spells," the Patrician continued. "Why, just last month there was a week in which I slept nearly five hours every night. Thankfully I'm out of that slump. Your difficulties have lasted several weeks now."

            It was amazing, thought Drumknott, how many little knots of yarn – it was wool, like _her_ hair -- went into forming a carpet. He'd already counted a hundred. 101, 102, 103…

            The Patrician watched Drumknott for a moment. The young man had been in his service for six years and had proved himself the most intelligent, efficient clerk he'd ever had. Drumknott had come to be something of a…well, not a friend. Certainly not a son or even a nephew. Leave it at a valued assistant. Regardless, seeing him there, staring at the carpet as if it held the solution to the mysteries of life… Well, it was rather sad. 

            "On five separate occasions I rang for you in the middle of the night and you were nowhere to be found," said the Patrician.

            "Sorry, sir," Drumknott mumbled. 115, 116, 117…

            "Last week when I asked for the trout market report, you said, and I quote, 'The dog ate it.' This was highly dubious since papers give Wuffles an upset stomach." The Patrician's gaze turned stern. "And he doesn't like fish.

            "Sorry, sir." 125, 126…

            "I thought it quite low blaming your procrastination on a poor defenceless terrier."

            Wuffles was the Patrician's one blind spot. With the exception of his master, no one who'd ever come in contact with Wuffles would call him defenceless. His flatulence alone had caused the untimely death of Marvin, a messenger pigeon unfortunate enough to be present at an emergency Watch meeting in the Oblong Office where Wuffles had a basket under the Patrician's desk. On Drumknott's first day as Vetinari's clerk, he'd had to remove the dog's fangs from his ankle without: 1) screaming, 2) leaving blood on his Lordship's carpet and 3) leaving any marks of violence on Wuffles. He'd achieved two out of the three.

            "I've received reports of you mooning about outside Pseudopolis Yard," said the Patrician. 

            "I haven't mooned anyone, sir," Drumknott said gloomily.

            The Patrician got up from his chair, circled his desk and leaned against it in what he hoped was a more casual attitude designed to encourage a more man-to-man conversation. 

"This situation can not continue, Drumknott."

            "No, sir."

"I expect utter efficiency and dedication from my staff."

            "Yes, sir."

            "I have other clerks prepared to take over your position."

            "I know, sir."

"I am not a man known for favoritism."

            "No, sir."

            The Patrician was slightly annoyed that Drumknott kept addressing the carpet and wasn't holding up his end of the conversation. It was time to bring out the big gonnes. He softened his voice.

            "It is natural for a young man to fall in love," he said.

            Drumknott looked up. In six years he'd never heard the word come out of the Patrician's mouth. Running Ankh-Morpork was no love fest and the Patrician was not the type of man to have women falling all over him. He'd probably complain about the untidiness of his clothing afterward.

            The Patrician sighed. "I want to help you, Drumknott."

            "You do?"

            "You're too valued an assistant to let go of simply because of an infatuation."

            Drumknott jumped to his feet.

            "I'm not infatuated!" 

The Patrician put one slim finger to his lips. Drumknott slid back into his chair. 

            "It is the nature of the young to be passionate," said the Patrician. "High spirits and so forth. Yet we must examine the situation and find a solution that would enable you to return to your previous sterling work habits." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "What would help you, Drumknott? If the young…lady in question agreed to a date?"

            One could not say that Drumknott's brain was functioning at optimal speed. He'd raised his voice at the Patrician -- a firing offence if his Lordship was in a good mood -- but that was not the half of it. The Patrician was talking about dates. Drumknott had always assumed the Patrician only knew about the kind of dates that fell out of trees, stuck to your fingers and melted all sugary in your mouth. 

            "She won't even talk to me," said Drumknott. There. It was out. He slumped in his chair. 

The Patrician became alarmed at Drumknott's lack of posture. The young man seemed to crumple into himself. Surely, this was serious.

            "You seem to do fine with the women around here," said the Patrician. His gaze turned stern again. "Despite that bit of high jinks with the stable boy."

            "It doesn't work, sir! It's all so easy with the maids and cooks and…whoever…" Drumknott thought it prudent not to bring up the last visit of the Patrician's middle aged but still amorous aunt. "…She won't even look at me. I've sent her presents and everything." His voice trailed away to a whisper. "I don't think she approves of me. You know, sir. As a…non-dwarf."

            The Patrician nodded.

            "Though interspecies relationships are increasingly common in Ankh-Morpork, dwarf-human pairs are extremely rare," he said.

            "I know," Drumknott groaned.

            "As I understand it, what pairs there are tend to be male dwarves with female…people." The Patrician considered a moment. "I would think the other way around may cause trouble. Who gets to use the razor first, and so forth."

            "Sir…"

            "Pardon, Drumknott. That was uncalled for." The Patrician went briskly back to his chair. "The young lady must be convinced. You are what I imagine a woman would consider a good catch."

            "Sir, you're not thinking of…"

            "Hmm? Oh, I wouldn't dream of interfering in your private life, Drumknott. Heavens no." The Patrician smiled, and that worried Drumknott. His Lordship never smiled without a reason.

            "Please, sir. I'll take care of it. I really will." Drumknott straightened in his chair to show the immediate benefits of his new resolve. "I was thinking of learning a love poem in Dwarfish."

            "_Urzgh Kr'ak Zut_ might impress her," said the Patrician.

            Drumknott stared. "You know Dwarfish, sir?"

            "Oh, a smattering. The Dwarves are a highly artistic people, Drumknott. One wouldn't guess it from their mining excellence and indigestible cuisine. Yet they excel at opera and they value the well-written word." The Patrician pressed his fingers together and leaned back in his chair. "Yes, I imagine the young lady's iron heart might soften if you gave her a few choice verses in Dwarfish." 

He stared into space for a moment, then grasped a quill and began to write. Drumknott watched, fascinated, until the Patrician was finished.

"Try this. Copied in your own hand, of course."

Drumknott could make nothing of the words. Some of them looked to be pronounceable only if the speaker swallowed his tongue. "What's it say, sir?"

"The rough translation would be: "Yours, my love, is the right face, Dwarfish bloom, raving, bathing, sub-disc brilliance, splendour mined… leaving me here in half delight, half shiver." The Patrician waved a hand. "And so on."

"My gods, sir," said Drumknott. "That's…_good_."

The Patrician flashed him a quick smile. "Not all that difficult if you have the knack." He sliced an envelope with a letter opener that looked suspiciously like a small dagger. "Do copy it out carefully, Drumknott. You don't want to know what the word _Slurzk_ means if the k is replaced by a p." 


	3. It was an accident, sir

"It was an accident, sir."

Cheery wasn't at Pseuodopolis Yard when Drumknott arrived that evening clutching his copy of the Dwarfish verse that he'd written on thick, creamy parchment. He leaned it against a beaker in her lab, the smelly room with all of the jars and mixing bowls. 

He dropped by the next day to see if she'd got it. Cheery was performing some sort of delicate experiment when he popped his head in.

"Good afternoon, Corporal," he said cheerfully.

There was the sound of breaking glass, an angry fizz and Cheery flew into Drumknott's arms. In the split second before the room exploded, he was thinking: "That _was_ a good poem."

Pseudopolis Yard remained evacuated for a good hour until Detritus and the golem Constable Dorfl chased out the toxic fumes by fanning the air with large pieces of masonry. It was not a good time for Drumknott.

"Why'd you go and sneak up on me?" Cheery demanded. Smoke rose from her beard and she smelled of burnt hair. 

"I just wanted to say hello and see if you'd—"

"You don't just say hello when I'm working! Do you know how long I'd been doing that experiment? It was going to reveal what kind of shoe polish the murderer of Stocky Williamson used." Cheery waved a stubby, soot-covered arm at the group of milling watchmen outside the Yard. "Do you have any idea how much trouble I'm going to be in?"

Drumknott's heart bled. "Believe me, Cheery--" 

She glared. 

"--Constable, the last thing I want in the world is to hurt you in any way. I just--"

"LITTLEBOTTOM!"

Cheery groaned. "See? See? Commander Vimes is going to go spare." She squared her shoulders and waited for the wrath of His Grace Sir Samuel Vimes to descend on her like a piano full of bricks.

Vimes had been in what one could call a good mood on only three days of his entire life. His wedding day and the day his son was born were the top two. In the 40-odd years before those events, he'd had one good day when he was ten and won the kickball game with the neighborhood bully by spontaneously rewriting the rules about which balls were going to be kicked. All other days in Vimes' life fell into the range of Tolerable through Why Was I Ever Born. 

Currently, the day was ranked a Why the Bloody Hell Did I Get Up This Morning. Vimes clenched his unlit cigar in his teeth and glared down at Cheery.

"Once every three months, Littlebottom," he said. "That was our agreement. Once every three months. You said…now wait, I remember this distinctly, you said…" His voice changed to a higher pitch. "… Yes, commander, I assure you I will cause the Yard to be evacuated no more than once a quarter." His voice went back to normal. "It's Sektober. The last little incident we had was in…let's see…" He made a show of counting on his fingers. "My word! Will you look at that? Less than two months ago! How could this happen?"

Cheery was about to explain when Drumknott stepped heroically in front of her.

"It's my fault, commander," he said. "If there's anyone to be reprimanded here, it's me."

Vimes squinted at Drumknott. "You're the Patrician's clerk." He straightened up and looked around suspiciously. "Where is he? I think I got some papers missing…"

"He's not here, sir," said Drumknott. "But let me say that Cheery Littlebottom is your best officer. Her dedication to the job is second to--" 

            Cheery stamped her boot heel into his shoe. "Cut it out, all right? I'm in enough trouble as it is." 

Vimes glared at Drumknott.

            "If the Patrician's not around, what're you doing here?"

            "I was just paying a social visit."

            "Which led to the explosion of the laboratory."

            Drumknott squirmed under the commander's laser gaze. "Er…It was an accident, sir." 

            "I don't hold with explosive social visits, Mr. Drumknott," said Vimes. "Truth be told, I don't hold with social visits of any kind. Too many cucumber sandwiches." Vimes had been born in that social class called the working poor but had the (mis)fortune to marry a noblewoman who sweetly coerced him into attending garden parties in the summer. "If it's all the same to you, keep your social visiting outside the Yard, all right?" 

            When the commander left, Cheery shook her head, a hand over her eyes. Her nails were painted fire engine red. Drumknott gazed at her like she'd floated in on the half shell. A paragon, she was. A lady fair. A stunning queen of sublime beauty…

            "Did you like the verses?" he asked.

            Cheery dropped her hand from her eyes. "They were….nice," she said grudgingly.

            Oh joy! If a couple dozen watchmen hadn't been around, Drumknott would have done a spontaneous jig in the street. Instead, he grinned like he'd just won Klatch in the lottery.

            "Then maybe…er…maybe we could—"

            "Don't think a few verses will make up for what you did today," Cheery said sternly. "I'll be cleaning up this mess for a week. So if you'll excuse me…" She stomped up the front steps of the Yard, covered her nose and mouth with her arm and stepped into the last remaining fumes.

            As he walked through the crowd of idle watchmen outside the smoking, foul smelling headquarters, Drumknott felt that progress had been made. When he was a ways down the street, he jumped into the air and clicked his heels.

            Drumknott had changed again. In the hallways of the palace, he strutted. As he filed papers for the Patrician, he whistled. His reports were just as sloppy as they'd been when he was depressed, but now it was due to excessive daydreaming. He waited around Pseudopolis Yard some evenings. Cheery had once given him a full minute of grudging conversation and he longed for more. She still wouldn't allow him to enter her lab or walk her home but at least she didn't glare at him anymore.

            This improved state of affairs had one hook. Once every few days, Drumknott appealed to the Patrician for another few lines of Dwarvish verse. The stuff the Patrician came up with was, in Drumknott's mind, nothing less than brilliant. All lustrous feeling and splendid sentiment. Drumknott hadn't known the Patrician had it in him.

            One day, Drumknott got up the confidence to broach an issue that he'd been wondering about over the previous two weeks.

            "Your Lordship," he said, "your verse really is exceptional."

            "Thank you, Drumknott." The Patrician signed the last in a stack of papers and flexed his ink-stained fingers.

            "It makes me wonder, sir…" Drumknott stood beside his master's desk, unsure of how to word what he was about to say. "That is, I couldn't help but think that it's not exactly your _style_. Love poetry. But you do it so well."       

            "We all have our little talents."

            "I mean, sir, that you're _really_ good at it. Like you've had some practice."

            The Patrician looked puzzled. "Poetry is simply an arrangement of words in a manner designed to please the reader and awaken some sentiment or realization. There's nothing too difficult about that." He leaned back in his chair. "Words are my specialty."

            Drumknott pursued the point with a stubbornness that in anyone else might be called suicidal when dealing with the Patrician. "It seems to me that love poetry requires a certain amount of understanding of…" He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. "…love."

            He opened them. The Patrician was smiling.

            "I have to disagree with you on that point, Drumknott," he said. "Love is completely inscrutable. It can not be understood. But it can be studied, just like any other subject." His smile faded a little. "It is not necessary to personally experience the…upheaval… of love to gain insight into how it functions."

            Drumknott wasn't altogether satisfied with this, but he let the matter drop. He sighed as he tucked a few papers into his satchel. 

            "Cheery likes the poetry but I don't think it's enough anymore," he said. "I was thinking…well, I know where she lives. Second floor of a house in Turnpound Street. I know right where her window is. I could just… maybe… serenade her…" He stared off into space.

            The Patrician studied his clerk. 

            "Drumknott?"

            "Yes, sir?"

            "Do you know how to sing?"

            "Not really, sir."

            "Hmm. And do you know how to play any musical instruments?"

            "I learned the recorder in school, sir."

            "Ah. And do you know any Dwarvish songs?"

            "Only ones about gold, sir. She doesn't like those."

            The Patrician imagined a serenade of songs about gold performed on the recorder. He repressed a smile. "It would seem, Drumknott, that a more classical serenade beneath the lady's window might be a bit out of your purview."

            Drumknott nodded glumly. "But I'm so sure that would do it, sir. She'd come around." He held out his thumb and index finger. "She's that close."

            The Patrician gazed at his clerk and sighed. It was somehow inevitable. The serenade came after the love letters. It was an ancient feature of both human and Dwarvish theater. The Patrician didn't much hold with the theater but he knew its conventions. Drumknott was right. A serenade would probably crack the lady's last bit of resistance. 

            "If you do this serenade, Drumknott, will you finally stop the nonsense and get your mind back on your work?"

            "I think so, sir."

            The Patrician held up a finger. "That's not good enough. The answer must be more along the lines of: 'Yes, certainly, sir.' Or else I'll have to re-consider helping you."

            Drumknott nearly dropped his satchel. "You would--"

            "Don't make a scene, Drumknott. Just tell me that regardless of the outcome of the serenade, you will return to your former work habits."

            At that point, Drumknott would have promised anything.

++++++++ Stay tuned for the conclusion!++++++++


	4. The god of love

Chapter 4: "The…er…god of love."

            If the great playwright Hwel had written of the best possible evening for a serenade, he would certainly have included a clear night sky of velvety blue-black dotted with shimmering stars. The full moon would give off an ethereal light. He might have thrown in a slight, warm breeze scented with wisteria. Nightingales would sing. Crickets would chirp. Bees would buzz merrily in the cherry blossoms. All of nature from the skies overhead to the creatures that creep, crawl or fly would be on their best behaviour, for this was a night for lovers.

There was a reason why Hwel preferred not to set his plays in Ankh-Morpork.

             "Drumknott, I just felt a raindrop."

            "It's not going to rain, your Lordship. Look, the sky is clear as…it ever gets here."

            There was a pause.

            "I felt another one."

            "We'll be there in a minute, sir. It's just around the corner."

            Drumknott quickened his pace, the cobbles of Turnpound Street like pillows of the sweetest air, giving his walk the buoyancy of the lover hastening to his beloved. He sucked in a deep breath. The air! Though the Ankh, stink-infested river of the city, sludged its way nearby, the night was as fragrant as a spring blossom. The stars glittered… Well, the sky was quite overcast, really. But Drumknott knew that above the ominous looking dark clouds, the sky was just as it should be: velvety and shimmering. 

            There was a lute slung across his back and several sheets of paper tucked into his pocket. Beside him, the Patrician walked with a lute-shaped cloth in his hand. His cane tapped the cobbles. A gust of wind caught his robe and sent cold air up his legs.

            "It's a bit on the nippy side out here, Drumknott," he said.

            "Is it, sir? I hadn't noticed."

            Lord Vetinari glanced at his clerk. The young man grinned in a manner his Lordship would characterize as slightly insane. At his last dinner at Unseen University, he'd seen the Bursar, a man permanently on medication, grin like that.

            Continuing with Hwel's idea of the classical serenade, the lady would have a convenient balcony from which she could gaze on her beau as he performed from either the lawn below or from the height of a sturdy, convenient tree. There would be a trellis with vines that snaked up the wall of her home. Her room would likely face a garden or some other secluded riot of greenery where the aforementioned nightingales, crickets and bees sang harmony to the lover's melody.

            No such place existed in all of Ankh-Morpork with the possible exception of a few noble houses in the richest neighborhoods on the far side of the Ankh. Turnpound Street was solid lower-middle-middle class and didn't hold with nonsense like lush gardens and trellises. Cheery's house did have vines but they were the rather insidious kind with little suckered stems that put one in mind of tiny, wall-scaling lizards. 

            Drumknott stopped in front of the house. "There it is," he sighed.

            "I certainly hope her window doesn't face the street," said the Patrician.

            "Oh no, sir. It's around back. This way."

            The buildings on Turnpound Street had been built nearly shoulder to shoulder with only small alleys in between. Cheery's house had an alley accessible by a narrow metal gate.

            "Blast, it's locked," said Drumknott. He checked that the lute was squarely on his back and gripped the top spikes of the gate. "If you could give me a boost, your Lordship…"

            The Patrician removed from somewhere in his robe a piece of metal that resembled a dull needle. It could've been a hair pin, but that wasn't the kind of thing patricians were supposed to carry around.

            "Step aside, Drumknott," he said. 

            "But sir, I think Cheery might be angry if she finds out we picked—"

            Click. The Patrician had Certain Skills. One of them involved never letting a lock of any kind keep him from going where he wanted. He tucked the pin away and opened the gate.

            "After you."

            Drumknott's qualms evaporated as he stepped into the alley. It turned onto the back of the four-story house where the garden was not much more than a patch of brown grass with an elderly maple tree whose leaves had begun to fall among a few sickly shrubs. But the tree reached the third floor – Cheery's room – and had a branch that looked just sturdy enough for a man. The manic grin returned to Drumknott's face. 

            There was also a balcony. It was extremely narrow and the railings were rusty. Various items of clothing hung on a clothes line. Drumknott sighed. _Her_ clothing.

            The Patrician viewed the surroundings with a different mindset. The tree looked barely able to hold the weight of a decent sized bird much less Drumknott. The shrubs would not give Vetinari acceptable cover unless he squatted down. The squat was unavoidable; though he'd been trained to blend into the background in his assassin days, he'd never learned how to disappear a lute. As he looked up with distaste at the balcony, another drop of rain plopped onto his face.

            "Drumknott, this is all quite unacceptable," he said.

            "Look, sir! There's a light in her room." A shadow passed across the sheer curtains that covered the balcony doors. Drumknott tested a low branch of the maple tree. "Will you give me a leg up, sir?"

            With a sigh, the Patrician set down his lute and stick and cupped his hands for Drumknott. The clerk was not athletic and needed several tries and a good heave from his employer to get him up on the first branch. It wavered under his weight. 

            The Patrician watched from the foot of the tree as the clerk found another hold and progressed toward the thick branch that stretched towards Cheery's window. Bits of tree bark slid out from under Drumknott's shoes.

            "Almost there, sir," he whispered. There was, however, a slight problem. Drumknott did not normally climb trees in the course of his duties as Palace clerk, and he did not own the type of shoes made for tree climbing. The soles were relatively slick and covered with a material that allowed him to walk the Palace halls in silence. 

A gust of wind made the tree sway. Drumknott's shoes scrabbled on loose bark, then slipped completely. He grasped a branch with both hands, it snapped, and he fell, twigs and rogue dry leaves scraping his face until one hand closed around a single weak branch. He breathed hard as he swung gently for a moment like a one-armed pendulum suspended in the air. Finally, he got a grip with both hands, hooked his left leg onto a neighboring branch that shed itself in all the excitement of an abandoned birds nest, and pulled himself back to a sturdy spot.  

            "No harm done, sir," Drumknott whispered after he got his breath back.

            The Patrician slowly removed the birds nest from his head and dropped it on the ground. There were no eggs, thank goodness, but there were strips of what looked like paper from dirty postcards and a number of grubby feathers. He picked several twigs out of his hair and glared up at his clerk.

            "I advise you, Drumknott, not to do that again," he said.

            The clerk wriggled his way into within a few feet of Cheery's balcony. He stretched out on the chosen branch, which dipped a little under his weight. After testing his balance, he pulled the lute into position.

            "I think I'm ready, sir," he said. He tucked the papers under his leg and gazed at the balcony door.

            The Patrician took his lute behind the shrubs and unwrapped it. It was of better quality than Drumknott's. Both instruments had been "borrowed" from the collection of the Guild of Musicians, which surely wouldn't miss them for one evening. The Patrician didn't normally play music but he was a gentleman. Every gentleman had learned how to play the gentlemanly instruments: the lute, flute, pianoforte and triangle. There was something distasteful to the Patrician about music pulled out of bits of wood, cat gut, metal and wire, but he was prepared to set aside his own feelings on the matter. For the moment. He softly strummed the lute. The chord hummed sweetly.

            "First song, Drumknott," he said in a stage whisper. "_Tresch ol'k Spruhl_."

            Drumknott peered down at the paper under his leg. It was rather hard to read in the dim evening light. His fingers were ready at the lute strings.

            "Drumknott!"

            "Yes, sir?"

            "The other way."

            "Pardon, sir?"

            The Patrician closed his eyes. "The lute. Hold it the other way."

            Drumknott adjusted the instrument. 

            "All right, sir."

            "As soon as I begin, count to ten before starting."

            "Understood, sir."

            The Patrician began to play. _Tresch ol'k Spruhl_ was a traditional Dwarvish love song, its melody resembling a slow and more complex version of Old MacDonald. The refrain even included an "e-i-e-i-o." It was amazing how cross cultural music could be.

            After counting to ten and strumming the air in front of the lute strings, Drumknott began to sing. Several problems soon arose. He couldn't read music. This was unfortunate because though the Patrician had explained that the song was about a young dwarf who sought the attentions of the daughter of the foreman of his mine, Drumknott couldn't follow exactly where the words fit with the melody. He also couldn't sing. Or understand Dwarvish. 

            The Patrician flinched behind the bushes but played on. Things had sounded much better in practice. Perhaps they'd concentrated too much on pronunciation and not enough on musicality. A couple of raindrops splattered across his face. Yes, the evening was only going to get better, he thought.

            The neighborhood cats were quite pleased by the music. Some began to screech. A flock of birds erupted from a fence and cawed as they took to the air. The curtains of Cheery's balcony door slid back. 

            Drumknott looked on with delight, singing his heart out, his hand now limp on the lute strings. Cheery stepped onto the balcony, ducked under the clothes line and gaped.

            "What are you doing? Are you insane?"

            Drumknott lost track of where he was in the lyrics, but sang on gamely. If it was possible, the song now sounded even worse.

            "You'll wake up the neighbors!"

            "We're already awake!" A man hung out the window on the floor above. "Cut the racket, a'right? Some people's got work tomorrow!" He slammed the window.

            The song ended. 

            "Cheery, my dear," Drumknott said. "I have arranged a selection of music and poetry to delight your heart." He let the lute dangle from its strap and rearranged his papers. A raindrop hit bullseye in the center of the top page. The ink ran.

            "Will you just go home?" Cheery groaned.

            "Just hear me out." Drumknott cleared his throat. "Grzk ol'k prenp ret mol ol'k grah." He threw out a hand to the air, as if declaiming on stage. "Grzk ol'k prenp barl tamp lowl kah; Blel stok mank brrr krak ol'k buhl; Grzk ol'k ben dez…" He squinted at the running ink on the page. "…glar…pohl…druhl?" He looked up. Behind the bushes, the Patrician put a hand over his eyes. Cheery stared at Drumknott in shock.

            "_What_ did you say?"    

            In confusion, Drumknott looked at his papers again. Raindrops fell steadily now and made matters worse. He leaned back in the tree a bit and tried to whisper out of the side of his mouth.

            "What did I say wrong, sir?"

            The Patrician waddled on his haunches as close to the tree as the bushes would allow.

            "Glar _brohl_, you fool! Not pohl." 

            "What's the difference?"

            "You just said her lips are like giblets!"

            "Oh." Drumknott turned back to Cheery, who stared at the bushes.

            "Who's over there?" she demanded.

            "Nobody."

            "Yes, there is. I heard him."

            "It was the sweet, sweet wind in the trees, my darling."

            "Then who were you talking to?"

            "The…er…god of love."

            "Which one?"

            "The…er… one who gets bad tempered in the rain." Drumknott's hair dampened as he spoke. "Perhaps another song, my dear?"

            Cheery held out a panicked hand. "No!"

            Drumknott changed papers and held the lute at the ready. "A-one. A-two. A-one, two…"

            The Patrician was not pleased at the situation. As a young man, he hadn't minded rain. That was some time ago, however, and his bones had the annoying habit these days of protesting when subjected to both wet and cold. He was also not accustomed to spending large amounts of time stooped on his knees. He was a tall man. Stooping was an effort. It was also rather undignified for a man of his station. 

            He strummed up the next song. Water twanged in his face as it flicked off the lute strings. Drumknott began to sing. Cheery gaped at him for a while, then began furiously unpinning the laundry from the line.

            "I'm not listening," she announced.

            Drumknott sang on.

            "I don't hear anything!" Cheery slapped a wet skirt over her arm. Her beard drooped in the rain.

            The papers with the lyrics were illegible due to running ink so Drumknott improvised. The song was now a mish-mash of whatever Morporkian and Dwarvish words flashed into his head. He relied on the language of the heart to see him through.

            "You're not even playing," accused Cheery. "Your hands aren't moving." 

            Drumknott's hand started strumming again a few inches from the soggy lute strings. In the bushes, a cold trail of rainwater made its way across the Patrician's neck and down his back. He played and relished how much his clerk would owe him for this. Owe him for _life_.

            The song finally ended with a sad little shriek of the Patrician's lute that sounded like someone stepping on a cat. Drumknott sang on until he realized the music had stopped. Cheery heaved the pile of laundry into her room and stomped back onto the balcony.

            "I'm not impressed, you know," she said.

            "I'm much better at poetry." Drumknott's papers were so wet that he couldn't read them any more. "Yes, a poem," he said loudly, glancing down into the bushes. "That would be lovely." He waited a moment. Cheery glared at him. He leaned back a bit and spoke even louder. "A poem. What a wonderful idea. Yes. _Poetry_."

            The Patrician considered letting his clerk squirm on the branch awhile. But then he reasoned the sooner the poetry was out, the sooner he could get out of that infernal rain.

            "O how thine eyes do shimmer in the night," he whispered.

            Drumknott sighed with relief. "O how thine eyes do shimmer in the night."

            "White as flocks of lambs, brown as…brown as…" 

The Patrician suddenly couldn't think of anything attractive of a brown color. Mud. The Ankh. What dogs left in the streets. Oh dear. _That_ certainly wouldn't do. 

"…brown as… a very high quality walnut desk," he said finally.

            Drumknott repeated this, uncertain.

            "With varnish," the Patrician added.

            Cheery leaned over the balcony rail and pointed accusingly at the bushes.

            "I heard him again."

            "It was no one, my darling."

            Cheery lifted her hands to the sky as if beseeching the gods to help her. "What do you want from me?" she cried.

            Drumknott's heart twisted in his chest. Her agony. It was unbearable. He inched closer along the slick branch. His papers were plastered to the bark.

            "O Cheery, crown of beauty, I want only to make you the happiest dwarf on the Disc."

            In the bushes, the Patrician clapped a hand over his mouth. He wasn't a particularly sensitive man but he knew it wasn't the moment to laugh out loud.

            Cheery frowned at Drumknott as she tried to ring the rainwater out of her beard. "I'm the most embarrassed dwarf on the Disc," she said.

            "Cheery, my dear, won't you come to dinner with me on Friday night? Just dinner. I swear I…" Drumknott moved closer. "…won't embarrass you. Or get you into trouble again." The branch swayed in the wind.

            Cheery looked unsure of herself. "You did all this for a date?"

            "We'll eat whatever you want. Dwarfish, Klatchian, Genuese. Anything."

            She stared at him with uncertainty. "You won't sing anymore."

            "Not a word."

            "Your Dwarfish is terrible."

            "I'll learn."

            Drumknott swiped wet hair out of his eyes to gain a better look at his beloved. She was soaked to the bone and irritated and tired and… radiant. He held out a hand to her. "What do you say, Cheery?"

            She blinked away the rain from her eyes and looked hard at him. Before her was a pale, beardless young man with twigs and leaves sticking out here and there from hair plastered wet on his head. His clothing clung to his thin body, and it appeared that he'd lost a shoe. His eyes glowed like he'd eaten of certain mushrooms that caused pleasant visions. He was straddled across a wet tree branch that would surely give way at any moment. All together, his was not an image that inspired confidence. 

Cheery tugged nervously at her beard and took a deep breath.

            "Oh. All right."

            From his hiding place the Patrician smiled, forgetting for a moment the cold rain and the ache of his knees.

            Drumknott let out a loud whoop and clasped his hands in the air as if he'd just won a prize fight. Then he fell out of the tree.

END 


End file.
